Deadly Christmas Secrets

Logan moved so quickly, Harper barely had time to realize what he was doing. One minute he was beside her. The next he and the bald guy were on the ground, Logan’s knee pressed into the other man’s back.

“Not smart, buddy,” Logan said quietly. “Stuff like that could get a man killed.”

“I’m not your buddy, and I’m not the one who’s going to die.” The guy bucked, trying to dislodge Logan. He didn’t have a chance. Even if he hadn’t been weak from blood loss, Harper didn’t think he could have moved Logan. Muscles and training definitely trumped anger.

“I guess that depends on whether or not you try to run when the cops get here.”

“When the cops get here—”

“Tell you what,” Logan interrupted. “How about we skip the discussion and get to the point. Who hired you to follow me out here?”

The guy went silent, his face blazing with anger.

“Right. So someone did hire you.”

“I didn’t say that!” the man snarled.

“Which answers another question. You’re afraid of whoever hired you, and that’s why you’re denying it.”

“I’m not—”

Sirens cut off the words, the screaming sound of them filling the woods. Picasso barked frantically, excited and alarmed by the chaos.

Harper just wanted it to be over.

She wanted the police to take the gunman away. She wanted Logan to leave. She wanted to go back to the life she’d made for herself. Quiet. Simple. Free of disappointments and heartaches and sorrows.

She supposed that made her a coward.

She wasn’t really.

She’d loved the life she’d once had—the hectic, high-stress graphic design job, the sweet brownstone she’d bought for a steal and remodeled. She’d loved her sister, her niece. She’d even fallen in love. Once upon a time. When she’d still been in college and not nearly as convinced that Shelby women always chose men who were going to hurt them.

Daniel had taught her a valuable lesson about that.

If she hadn’t learned it from her college sweetheart, she might have learned it from watching Lydia. Gabe hadn’t been the kind of husband any woman deserved. He’d cheated. More than once, and he hadn’t been apologetic about it.

And then Lydia and Amelia had died, murdered by a homeless man who’d stolen Lydia’s purse. That was the story the prosecuting attorney told. He’d built a tight case and presented it to a jury, convincing them that Norman Meyers had killed Lydia and Amelia and tossed their bodies into the Patuxent River. Norman was a known meth addict who’d committed enough petty crimes to be a frequent flyer with the police. He’d been married twice, and both his wives had restraining orders against him. Violent was a word that had been used a lot during the trial, and Norman’s angry, defiant glare hadn’t done anything to convince the jury otherwise. Despite the fact that Amelia’s body had never been found, the prosecuting attorney had gone for two counts of second-degree murder. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, and Norman had been put away for life.

Harper had always thought she should be happy with that, but she’d felt no sense of closure. Most days she could convince herself that the jury was right, that Norman was guilty. There were other days when she thought it was all a little too convenient—Lydia and Amelia sneaking out of her place in the middle of the night, walking along a street quiet enough for them to be accosted without any witnesses. Amelia’s body missing and never found. Harper’s brother-in-law finally free of a wife he’d seemed to despise. Harper had spent enough time with her sister and brother-in-law to hear the arguments, the accusations, the veiled threats. She knew that Gabe loved his daughter. He would have never been able to hurt her, but Harper wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have hurt Lydia.

Had he killed her? Secreted their daughter away somewhere?

The idea seemed farfetched. Besides, the only family member the police seemed to have suspected was Harper. She’d been the last person to see her niece and sister alive and—according to her brother-in-law—was a jealous younger sister who’d hated Lydia.

The press had had a field day with stories that implicated her. She’d lost a few clients because of it, and then she’d lost her job.

Worse, she’d had no alibi, no way of proving that her sister and niece had left her house alive. Until Norman Meyers had pawned Lydia’s engagement ring, Harper had been certain she was going to be tried and convicted.

Not good memories. Any of them.

She shuddered, taking a step away from Logan and the man he was still holding down.

“Harper?” Logan said sharply, and she thought he must have already tried to get her attention. “Can you head to your place and lead the police here?”

“Why?” the gunman spat. “Because you plan to murder me and don’t want any witnesses?”

Logan ignored him, pulling out his cell phone and glancing at the screen. “Tell the police that I’ve got Langley Simmons here. Looks as if he has a warrant out for his arrest.”

The gunman cursed, tried to twist out from under Logan.

“Harper?” Logan prodded.

“I’ll get them,” she responded, calling to Picasso and jogging away. She wanted to leave both men behind, leave the entire mess behind.

She knew she couldn’t, of course.

She’d spent her life trying to do the right thing, trying to live the way she’d thought she should—following the rules, being moral and just and kind. She’d wanted what her mother had never been able to achieve—stability, security, edifying relationships.

God had obviously had other plans.

Her life had taken a turn she hadn’t anticipated, and now all she wanted was to be at peace.

It didn’t look as if that was going to happen, either.

But God was in control.

He had a plan and a way.

She just wished He’d tell her what it was.

There was a lesson in trust there, she supposed, but she’d never been good at trusting. Even when it came to God. Maybe especially then. She’d prayed a lot when she was a kid, begging God to step in before the family was evicted or the lights were turned off or the police came to search for the drugs one of her mother’s boyfriends had left.

Most of the time, those prayers hadn’t been answered. At least not in any way that made sense to her. Lights were often turned off and evictions happened. As an adult, she knew those were natural consequences to her mother’s habitual sins, but those old feelings of distrust and anxiety were still there.

She pushed aside the memories as she raced up the steep hill that led to her cabin. Picasso bounded out of the woods in front of her, and she heard a masculine voice call his name. Sheriff Jeb Hunter or one of his deputies.

Seconds later, she hit the top of the path and ran out onto her driveway. Two police cars were parked close to the cabin, Jeb Hunter crouched next to one of them shooting pictures of a bullet casing. Picasso lay a few feet away, panting quietly.

Jeb looked up as Harper approached, his deep green eyes shaded by a uniform hat. “Heard there was trouble out here, Harper. From the look of things, that might be true.”

“It is.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“Someone was shooting at us.”

“Us?”

“A guy my brother-in-law sent. He showed up a few minutes before the guys with the guns.”

“There’s more than one gunman?”

“Yes. One drove away. One of them is in the woods, injured.”

“The guy your brother-in-law sent? Where’s he?”

“Keeping the injured guy from running.”

“Then, I guess we’d better go find them. Want to lead the way?”

Not really. What she wanted to do was go back to her clay. It wasn’t a possibility, so she whistled for Picasso and headed back into the woods.

* * *

Logan didn’t much like stepping aside and letting other people handle problems. Right now, he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t a cop and hadn’t been hired to work with them, so he hung back, watching as Simmons was loaded onto a stretcher, his wrist handcuffed to a deputy sheriff.

Sheriff Jeb Hunter wasn’t taking any chances. That was good. Simmons was desperate. Given the opportunity, he’d run. If he did that, Logan doubted he’d ever be found. If he was, it would probably just be his body that turned up. The guy was scared of someone. Logan wanted to know who, but all Simmons was willing to admit to was a few too many beers and a case of mistaken identity.

Lies, but it didn’t matter.

The guy was guilty of nearly killing someone, and he’d be in jail for a while. Maybe when his buddy didn’t show up to bail him out, he’d be more willing to talk.

“So, Logan Fitzgerald,” Sheriff Hunter said as the ambulance pulled away. “You want to explain how you happened to be in the right place at the right time?”

“I was hired by Gabe Wilson.”

“My brother-in-law,” Harper interrupted as if those words would explain everything.

They explained nothing. Not to the sheriff and not to Logan. Finding Harper had been easy. She’d taken out a loan for property in Westminster, Maryland. No address was listed, but with only a little digging he’d found a house title with her name on it.

Easy.

So why hadn’t Gabe done it himself?

The guy had money. Plenty of it.

He could have hired anyone to find his sister-in-law. He’d hired HEART.

Had he known there was going to be trouble?

Or had he simply wanted to hedge his bets, make sure that Harper was found because...

Why?

It had been four years since Harper disappeared from Gabe’s life. If he’d wanted to kill her, wouldn’t he have made an attempt before?

Lots of questions.

Not many answers.

The sheriff must have felt the same way. He frowned, took off his uniform hat and ran his hand over his dark hair. “Now, why, I’m wondering, would your brother-in-law want to find you?”

Logan responded, “He said he received information about his daughter.”

“Amelia is dead,” Harper said, her face pale as paper.

“There was a funeral,” Logan corrected her, because he’d studied the case, read every article. That was the way he was. He liked to be prepared, to understand all the details before he began a mission. “Her body was never found.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “What information does he have?”

“A photograph. A piece of cloth that he says might be part of her blanket.”

He didn’t think it was possible, but she paled more, swaying slightly. Her dog nudged her side.

She touched his head and seemed to ground herself.

“I received something similar.”

“A photo?” Sheriff Hunter asked.

“No. A newspaper article and a piece of something that might have been Amelia’s favorite blanket.” The words rasped out, and Logan cupped her elbow, afraid she might pass out. She looked that shaken, that anxious.

“Did you keep it?” the sheriff asked, and she nodded.

“I called the DC police about it, but they haven’t gotten back to me.”

“When was that?” Logan asked, leading her toward the two-story cabin that sat in the middle of a cleared lot. An acre. Maybe a little more. He’d looked at the plans before he’d driven out, gotten a good feel for the land. Not because he’d expected trouble. Just because it was what he did.

It had paid off this time.

He knew the topography. The creeks. The flatland and forests. The twenty acres she owned wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to get lost in when the forests were as deep and untouched as the ones that surrounded Harper’s place.

“Last night. I called Thomas Willard. He’s a homicide detective who led the investigation into my sister’s murder.” She opened the door.

No key.

She obviously hadn’t locked up before she’d left.

That bothered him.

Life was filled with danger. A person couldn’t avoid it, but he could certainly prepare for it.

“You might want to lock that the next time you go out,” he said, and she shrugged, soft brown hair slipping from its clip and falling across her face. She had freckles on her nose and on her cheeks, long black lashes tipped with gold. He’d say that she spent a lot of time outside, and that she knew her land about as well as anyone could know anything. He’d also say that she probably thought she had things under control, that it was within her power to keep trouble from coming down on her head.

That was a dangerous thing to assume.

He wanted to tell her that, but they were strangers, and he was making assumptions based on what he saw—the tidy little two-story cabin, the rifle that looked as if it had never been used hanging above a small fireplace, the wood-burning stove with its neat pile of wood beside it. Unless he missed his guess, there was more piled by the back door, several cords of it in storage on a back porch or in a shed. She probably had a month’s worth of supplies, an emergency generator for lights, everything she thought she’d ever need. That was good. Great, even. But the best-laid plans didn’t always pan out.

“It’s never been a concern before,” she said, tucking the stray hair behind her ear, her fingers speckled with flecks of red mud. “Now that it is, I’ll be sure to lock up. If you gentlemen don’t mind waiting here, the package is upstairs. I’ll get it.”

She ran from the room, heading toward the back of the cabin, her dog following along behind her. Logan figured there was a kitchen there, maybe a small laundry room and the staircase that led up to the second story. He was curious to see the place, get a feel for how difficult it would be to secure.

He stayed where he was, though, because he’d been asked to, and because he had a few things he wanted to talk to the sheriff about.

“Have your men found the sedan?” he asked as footsteps tapped across the floor above his head.

“Not yet, but the guy can’t have gotten far. Not with a blown tire.”

“There are plenty of places to hide around here,” Logan pointed out. “I’d guess he pulled onto some side road, hid the car and took off on foot.”

“I’m guessing you’re right, and since there are only a few crossroads between Harper’s property and town, I’m feeling pretty confident we’ll track the car down quickly.”

“And then?”

“Take some dogs into the woods, see if we can find our guy.”

“In the meantime, Harper will be out here alone.”

“You think the guy is going to come back?” Sheriff Hunter asked.

“I think he didn’t accomplish his goal. Harper is still alive.”

“You’re assuming Harper was the target,” Sheriff Hunter pointed out.

“That seems like a logical assumption.”

“In my opinion, it would be just as logical to assume that someone is after you. In your line of work, that wouldn’t be unlikely.” Logan didn’t ask how he knew what kind of work Logan did. If Sheriff Hunter hadn’t heard about the visitor to his small town the previous night and checked things out, he’d have had people checking Logan’s credentials as soon as he’d gotten the plate number off the Jeep.

“It wouldn’t be, but there were a dozen opportunities to take me out on my drive here. Not to mention my sleepover in Dora’s Sleep Haven last night. Place has no security. The windows don’t even lock.”

Sheriff Hunter smirked. “You should have asked a local. We would have pointed you to our pastor. He has a nice in-law suite that he loans out to anyone who has a need.”

“In other words, I’m the first person ever to stay with Dora?”

“There was a guy a few years back. Turned out he was running from the law and wanted a place to hide out. Not so smart to hide in a town that has fewer than a thousand residents. Dora called me. I did a little checking. Guy ended up spending the next night in Snowy Vista’s town jail.”

“Probably a lot more comfortable than Dora’s place,” Logan muttered.

“Probably.” He walked to the fireplace and lifted the shotgun. “Not loaded. I’m not keen on her living out here on her own, but if she’s going to stay, it would be a good idea to have some security.”

“You planning to talk to her about it?” he asked. If Sherriff Hunter didn’t, Logan would. She needed protection. At least until the guy who’d been driving the sedan was caught.

“I’ll give it a try. She has her own way of doing things. Not sure she’s going to listen to me.”

“She will if she wants to stay alive,” Logan responded as Harper walked back into the room.

THREE

Amelia.

She was all Harper could think about as she paced her bedroom, the sound of voices drifting up through the floorboards. Logan’s voice. The higher-pitched voice of his coworker, Stella Silverstone. She’d arrived three hours ago, striding into the cabin as if she owned the place. She’d made tea, fed Picasso, acted as if it wasn’t any of her concern if Harper didn’t want twenty-four-hour protection at the cabin.

“It’s her business,” Stella had said when Logan and Sheriff Hunter insisted that Harper shouldn’t stay in the cabin alone. “If she wants to die before she finds out if her niece is alive, what’s it to you?”

That was it.

All it took.

That one thought, that one little hope that Amelia was alive was enough to make Harper put up with anything or anyone.

Amelia alive...

Her pulse raced at the thought, her throat tight with dozens of memories—her niece’s birth, all the little and big moments that had happened after it.

There’d been times during the past few years when she’d wondered if Amelia was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Now the possibility seemed real. That little piece of blanket, the newspaper article—had they been hints? Clues designed to pull Harper closer to the truth, closer to her niece?

Or bring her closer to her death?

She shuddered.

She’d kept to herself for years, had separated herself from her old life. She’d put the past behind her, and now it was in front of her again.

Why now?

For what purpose?

She needed to talk to Gabe. She’d called him, left a message on his machine. He hadn’t returned her call. He’d probably make her wait a few days. That was the way he was. The way he’d always been. Everything in his time frame. He and Lydia had been late or early to social events on his whim. They hadn’t even made it to Harper’s college graduation because Gabe had decided that they needed to go over the household budget.

A joke, because Lydia had no control over their finances. She hadn’t even been told how much her husband made. She’d known about the heirloom jewelry he kept in his wall safe, though, and she’d figured out the combination. When Lydia had wanted something, she’d figured out how to get it. She hadn’t really wanted to attend Harper’s graduation. She hadn’t wanted to leave her cheating husband because that would mean giving up the fancy house, the nice clothes, the cash allowance.

Whatever anyone said, whatever anyone believed, Harper had always thought that had cost Lydia her life.

Harper shut the thought off, pulling back the curtains and looking out into the growing darkness. Night fell early this time of year, but there were still a few golden rays of sun glinting on the horizon. In the distance, she could see Snowy Vista, the lights from the town gleaming through the trees. Soon the place would be decorated for Christmas. Every door would have a wreath, every window colorful lights. Trees would be decked out with garland, and yards would boast Nativity scenes and snowmen. She didn’t have anyone to shop for, but every year, she went to town the week before Christmas. Every year, she walked Main Street, looked at all the Christmas decorations, listened to the carols drifting from shops and watched the people walking up and down the street. It was a small town, but near the holidays, people came in from Baltimore and DC, or traveled down from Lancaster and York, just to see the Christmas displays.

That was the kind of town Snowy Vista was. Not a place most people stayed. Not even for a night. Just a place to pass through, to admire in the way one would look at a bouquet of flowers or a snowy mountain peak.

“It’s pretty, though. If I wanted to live around people again, it wouldn’t be a bad place to settle,” she said, and Picasso huffed his agreement, his cold nose touching her hand.

A light flashed in the trees and she frowned, leaning closer to the glass, trying to see if someone was out there. Sheriff Hunter’s men hadn’t found the sedan or its driver yet. The guy would be a fool to return, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

Another flash, and she stepped away from the window, watching as the light flashed again. A signal of some sort? Should she tell Logan? She headed toward the door and was nearly there when it flew open.

Stella strode in. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Away from here,” she responded, grabbing Harper’s hand and dragging her out of the room.

“For how long? Because if we’re going to be gone for more than a few hours—”

“Less talking, more moving,” Stella interjected, her short red hair bouncing as she hurried Harper down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was dark there. No light spilling in from the living room or from the office that jutted off the back of the house.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, afraid to speak too loudly, afraid that if she did, whatever was causing them to rush from the cabin would find them.

“Someone’s out in the woods making a nice little circle of the property. Logan thinks it’s best if we clear out for a while.”

“And go where?”

“Does it matter?” Stella opened the front door, pulled her to a cherry-red SUV and opened the car door. “Get in.”

“Picasso!” she called as she climbed in.

The dog skidded outside and bounded toward the SUV, and then he stopped. Dead still. Every muscle in his body taut, he eyed the dark woods at the edge of the property, growled and then raced toward the tree line.

“Picasso,” she called again, but Stella had already slammed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.

“I can’t leave my dog,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

“Logan will get him.”

“Logan doesn’t know he’s missing!” she protested, but they were already racing along the gravel road. There were no streetlights out this far. No moonlight glimmering from the steely sky. Stella didn’t turn on her headlights, and the road was shadowy, the trees looming up on either side. Anything could be lurking out there, anyone.

A light flashed, and the SUV shuddered, swerving toward the trees, then back toward the road again. Harper could feel the thump of a flat tire. Someone was firing at them, and one tire had already been shot out.

Stella didn’t slow down, just kept speeding through the darkness.

“Get down!” she shouted, jerking the wheel to the left. Seconds later, the back window exploded, shards of glass flying through the air, falling on Harper’s hair, her hands, her arms. She could see them shimmering in the dashboard lights. She could feel the awful thud of her heart, the rapid pulse of the blood through her veins.

She’d been scared earlier. Terrified, even, but she’d thought the danger was over. She had wanted to believe that the man who’d been driving the sedan had disappeared—gone for good.

She’d been wrong.

If she hadn’t allowed Logan and Stella to stay...

What?

Would Picasso have warned her in time? Would Harper have been able to load the shotgun? Protect herself from the threat?

“Something is burning,” Stella said so calmly, the words didn’t register with Harper.

The smell did—the sharp scent of gasoline, the acrid smell of smoke.

“Must have hit the gas line and sparked. We need to get out, but we need to be smart about it,” Stella continued as if she were talking about the color of the sky or the temperature of the air.

“Smart? Smart would be getting out while we have the chance,” Harper exclaimed, grabbing her door handle.

“Smart would be staying alive. The likelihood this car is going to explode is little to none. The likelihood one of us is going to be shot dead by the guy who’s after you? That’s higher. You get out your side, and you’ll be in the middle of the road. We’re getting out on my side. Back door, because it’s right up against the trees. You go over the seat first. I’ll follow.”